


Blood Magic Tuesdays

by stagprince



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Danarius - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stagprince/pseuds/stagprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gang is trapped by a demon much like in DA:O where they're all shown their worst fears. Anders is the first to break free and goes about aiding the others.</p><p>When he gets to Fenris the memories are of him having sex with an older man, dressed in Mage robes no less! Misinterpreting what he's seeing and wanting to needle Fenris for what he sees as hypocrisy he later mocks that Fenris must have been captured by a desire demon instead, it's only after Fenris storms off that the others realize the older man in the vision must have been Danarius.</p><p>From DA Kinkmeme prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15195.html?thread=57629531#t57629531</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this was an interesting prompt, and I've been meaning to do some writing exploring the dynamic between Fenris and Danarius, as I think its interesting to examine how it shapes him as a character and his life after slavery, as well as his later recovery process from what he's endured. Obviously this fic features rape, though the scene is not featured in graphic detail, rape will be discussed by the characters. So yeah, just a bit of a disclaimer as thats not something I would wish to spring on anyone uninformed.
> 
> To be honest, writing this has been a bit of a cathartic experience, and I'd just like to thank anon for making it a prompt, and giving me something to go off with my exploration of this issue. Anyway; on to the fic!

Blood magic was something they were all, sadly, far too well acquainted with.

Things had been going as a usual tuesday in the Wounded Coast seemed to come to - hunting down errant blood mages in the interconnecting caverns beneath the cliffs, fighting off shades and lesser demons. Anders was well practiced by now - with Hawke at their head, his staff spinning as he rained elemental carnage from above he would stick to the rear casting barriers and healing as was needed. Isabela was a blur of motion, rowdy kicks and shoves and fought like a mix between a bar brawler and a dancer (also potentially situated in bars, typically about poles, his mind added as an afterthought) and Fenris guarding their flank. He fought like a wounded animal, ferocious and ever on the attack, as though he couldn’t wait for his sword to cleave flesh or his clawed gauntlets to sink through skin.

Just then he had torn the head from a shade in a clean swipe, but it hardly mattered.

Beyond stood a blood mage a knife raised in their twitching fingers - fear or paranoia or both had taken hold, and Anders could feel their magic through his skin. Clammy and cold and distinctly _not right._

There was no way to reach them in time before they slammed the blade into their palm, and blood poured forth dark and thick before it seemed to coalesce in the air around them like so many droplets of rain suspended in the air.

Fenris had spun round, but Isabela was quicker her twin daggers gleaming from the light that shone through ragged cracks in the rock face above. Anders threw out an arm, his roared “No!” barely past his lips before the demon emerged. It tore its way free from its host like a seed being squeezed from a too small sheath, glistening with red and wet and gore. It snapped mighty jaws, disfigured and awful with teeth at all the wrong angles before raising them up and letting forth an ear splitting howl.

Anders vision swam, the cave suddenly rocking before him all a-jumble - Hawke stumbled ahead, and Isabela had been thrown back by the sheer force a crumpled heap on the ground. Fenris had dropped to one knee, teeth drawn in a snarl hands so tight on his sword, as if he thought it could help. As if it could save them now.

Anders tumbled forward, and then the world burst forth in bright, tangible colours.

His head spun for a moment, and he squirmed for a second with the shock of it - he felt alive, burningly,  _blissfully_  alive and every inch of his skin crawled with the feel of it. He knew this place. He knew the fade.

It was as comfortable as slipping on a second skin, and he moves to shift himself upright when he realizes something - he’s been shifted to the backseat. His hand raised of no volition of his own, held before his eyes that seem somehow both his own and yet distant.

Then he see’s the blue cracks, like lightning racing down his skin and he realizes what has happened.

 _‘Justice?’_ He calls out, but the feeling of his mouth moving is like from an echo or a memory. The spirit nods his - _their?_ \- head, pushing them upright.

“It would seem I have returned home,” He feels the hum of a voice so much deeper than his own rumble out, and he turns to look. There is a warmth in his chest, and fondness and a peace he has rarely known in his true dreams of the fade.

“We are in no danger here - but your companions are already ensnared. We must banish this demon! It has no right to their minds,” Now he feels the heat of the spirit’s anger, a burning coal that seems to sit halfway up their throat. He’s moving, walking forward - everything is green grass or half boulders except in the places where it’s not, or where it’s backwards. He steps forward and for a moment the ground seems to crumble beneath him; but Justice calls it, wills it back into shape, and rights it.

Anders can already feel the start of a headache, throbbing through his temples.

 _‘We need to move quickly then,’_ he thinks, and he feels Justice’s approval. They step forward and for a moment, the dream flickers and he can see the cave once more. He’s standing there, the demon’s head still lifted in its unearthly shrieking, but he’s staggering forward he can feel it. He steps again, and the fade swims back into view like the thick of a fog cloying and insistent.

 ** _Relent mage_**.

Calls a voice, dark and deep, needling at his core.

Justice has the humour to laugh.

“Never!” He snarls in response, arm out stretched - in his hand burns a mage light, pure and blue and bright and it shines through the gloom and green of the sickly mist that presses at them.

In the darkness he can make out a figure - _figures_ , more correctly, though he’s unsure which part of him makes the correction. It is of little matter as they press forward, immutable and unstoppable - he hears the whisper of the demon faint as a whistle but he pushes it from his thoughts with surprising ease. Justice is at his strongest like this - their conjoined conscious pulled into the fade together, revitalizing for the spirit like a gust of cool sweet air.

The fog seems to clear for a moment, and together they watched the scene beyond.  
There is a fire in the corner, burning bright and warm and orange and sending its glow across the polished marble of the floors. It casts long, dancing shadows, but even still Anders can make out Fenris a mile away.

He’s standing before the fire place, down to simple leather pants and no sight of his usual tunic or armaments anyway.

And there is a low, deep voice.

“My most prized, my most precious,..” It begins, and the elf dips his head as if in embarrassment. He shifts a few sets forward, tan feet gliding across the marble with a practiced sort of grace, footsteps light and tentative, as if he was.. shy?

Anders isn’t even sure what he’s looking at. He shifts a few steps forward, but nothing in the dream changes - Fenris doesn’t flinch, doesn’t seem to know he’s even present. He only has eyes for the person in the chair.

At first, Anders assumes its Hawke and feels the tiniest spark of jealousy flare within him - at once the demon presses up, and the mist seems to snag at him but Justice need only flare the light in his palm a little brighter and it sends the demon away.

“Guard your emotions more carefully, Anders. Remember our purpose. Our cause,” The spirit chides him, and Anders has to give a small huff.

 _‘Believe me if writing manifestos could quell this ache, there would be twice as many pages. Ok, slightly unfair analysis. Yes! I will get onto the section outlining the hypocrisy of the Harrowings! Just hush, for now_ ,’ Justice stops the disapproving feeling he had hankered on to and settles himself once more to watch the scene unfold. They seemed to have missed some important exchange of words, as Fenris had shifted and - _oh_.

He was kneeling between the bearded man’s thighs, face pressed scandalously close to the front of the man’s robes (mage robe's, by Anders guess, though the style of them is unfamiliar). The bearded fingers hands were running hungrily through Fenris’ hair, coaxing him closer, the other tracing lightly down the edge of one pointed ear and the elf actually _shuddered_ at the touch. His lyrium markings even seemed to be responding - they lit up, nearly bright as Justice’s own fire, gleaming like silver scars.

Fenris has those too though, Anders notes on closer inspection - they line his back, criss cross with the intricate work of the tattoo lines and intersect them like the delicate wisps of a spider’s web. But Anders would know those marks anywhere - the lashes of a whip.

“So good,” The bearded man has crooned once more, as Fenris seemed to eagerly press closer.

“To the bed,” The bearded man commands in a voice that cracks like a whip, keen with need and seems to drop the cooing note of fondness as quick as it had come - the kind of voice used to barking orders. Fenris seemed ever eager to obey collecting himself all at once, face flushed and moving to the bed, already using shakey fingers to unlace the front of his breeches.

Anders has to turn away in disgust, though his face doesn’t twist an inch, Justice wearing it as an impassive mask.

“What offends you so?” The spirit queries, and Anders simply shakes his head (at least, he feels as though he does, but Justice’s vision doesn’t shake - just stays doggedly forward through the gloom and the fog his outreached hand still wreathed in flame and seemingly guiding the way) and groans.

He had scarcely wanted to pry into Fenris’ past - if he could stay at least 10 ft away from the elf at all times, it would be a blessing at least on his ears. Fenris had always stayed curiously private about his life before Kirkwall. Not the slavery or the fact that he was imprisoned but the exact duration of the time and his escape Anders had never known. Perhaps the bearded man was some mystery figure from his past; whatever his reasons, it was clear to see what kind of demon had managed to claw its way through the tough thorny barriers the elf wore as a second armour. _Clearly_ it had been a desire demon, praying on some need of Fenris’ to be loved and _cooed over by a mage_ apparently, the thought of which alone is somehow just slightly gratifying.

Fenris, who had been on his high horse for so long, who had deemed Anders deranged and demon addled from the start and constantly belligerently spouted his ignorant opinions had fallen so easily into the clutches _of a desire demon_. It was nearly too good to be true.

The fade around them shifts once more, and Anders can catch glimpses of the world beyond - the real, conscious world. They are so close, they are nearly upon the demon. Justice had lead them straight and true, each step trapped in the demon’s fade tear correlating to a step his physical form had taken. Justice had upheld beneath the demons onslaught as strong and resolute as a bulwark.

He could feel the spirit glow a little with pride at the thought. _They_ would be the ones to save the day.

He feels his hands pull forth the dagger he kept at his hip, not shaking a sliver as he raises it hands sure and steady. The world is getting clearer now - the fog was lifting, and all that remained was the demon, glistening in the light, clawing with the last vestiges of its mist, the howl ever present ever ringing like a single note played on and on and on, but he couldn't hear it now despite his vicinity, Justice keeping the call at bay.

He shifts the dagger and in one swift movement, Justice baths it in the blue flames of his palm, before raising it high. It glints in a sliver of sunlight from the world beyond.

He brings the blade down, tearing into the demon stabbing deep and true - it convulses with the force of the movement, its shriek raising in pitch before guttering out in a pathetic moan. It deflates, shrivelling back till it’s nothing but a blackened husk on the cavern floor before him.

Anders is panting hard as he turns, tired and haggard but victorious. He see’s Hawke raise their face from the floor, shaking it much in the same fashion as a mabari might. Isabela rolls over onto her back, breathing hard and eyes glances about as though to check the world is real, and whole and tangible once more.

Fenris is on his hands and knees when his face jerks up - pale and drawn, slick with sweat. His brows are drawn down, but his expression lacks its usual fierceness. He just looks slack as a sail cloth with all the wind blown out, yet somehow he still seems to stagger to his feet.

He then promptly turns, and wretches on the cavern floor, leaning heavily on his greatsword for support.

Anders wipes a slick palm across his brow, fingers still sticky with demon gore.

Yep. Just a regular tuesday.


	2. Chapter 2

The day has drawn to a close - tired from their fighting, they had simply broken camp on the cliffs above rather than walk through the rest of the night. They sat throwing guttering driftwood into the small fire, the smell of the salt breeze crisp and clean. Isabela had pointed out a small bluff where the winds wouldn’t be so great as they had climbed their way back round the winding cliff faces and they had all collapsed there. Thankfully, everyone had seemed too drained to bicker so they had set about the chores of making camp with relative ease and only a few teasing comments from their resident rogue about all the hard wood they’d need to collect for the fire.   
  
As they had ascended, Anders couldn’t help but shoot glances between them all - what manner of demon had each of them been taken by? Fenris’ he had known, but he’d stepped in beside Hawke to check him over. Despite the ordeal and physical strain on his body, his magic seemed to thrum through him like fire licking down his veins - the fade tended to leave a sort of ‘hangover’ effect, like an after glow only stranger and as the resident healer it was his duty to check on the other mage of the party. The one not quite so lucky as to house a spirit of the fade in his body.  
  
At least that was what he told himself as he squeezed against Garrett on the narrow path, earning himself a half snorted laugh from behind them (Isabela) and a warm smile from his friend. Hawke gave him a little tip of his head, and for a moment Anders forgot his question. Just for a second.   
  
“How are you feeling, Hawke?”  
  
Garrett rolls his eyes at the question before taking a hand to his brow, sweaty as it is from the climb in the sunset.  
  
“Well healer I think I’m quite alright - no thanks to you. I’ve been nursing this paper cut for 2 days now and it’s still not quite gone,” He has the audacity to pout as he proffers the finger in question, tiny cut visible if growing faint.  
  
Anders shoves his shoulder, though reaches out two fingers, ready to knit the skin closed as Hawke holds the hand aloft with a bark of laughter, realizing his friend’s plan.  
  
“Anders!” He scolds, good naturedly and the healer offers him a shrug and a smile.  
  
“Only doing my duty to assist our most illustrious leader. Think of the stories Varric would tell if instead of demons or dragons it was a measly little paper cut that killed the errant but noble Hawke of Hightown?”  
  
He gets another chuckles for his efforts as Garrett shakes his head.    
  
“How are you after.. the demon?” Anders recoups, and Hawke’s smile falls a fraction of an inch, just for a moment. Like his expression froze, and he hazards a glance over his shoulder. Isabela and Fenris seem to be lagging behind just as well, Fenris holding the rear as their captain-but-not seems to be gesturing to something out to sea. The elf barely twitches an ear.  
  
Hawke licks his lips for a moment, tasting the salt from his skin but whether it was from the blood from the fighting he hadn’t bothered to smear from his face, the sweat or the sea wind he wasn’t sure.   
  
“Mine was a fear demon, I think,” He quips quickly with a shrug.   
  
“I mean obviously I’ve not had a Circle’s education on magic - is that a class, by the way? The identification and classification of demons and how to define them? If not it should definitely be added to the curriculum-”  
  
“Generally they keep a mentioning to demons to the minimum of ‘don’t do it’ and ‘you will become an abomination and you _will_ die’, but I’ll be sure to inform the grand enchanter next time we’re in the Gallows,” Anders responds with an easy shrug.   
  
Hawke nods for a moment, realizing the joke may have touched a nerve, and continues on.  
  
“It was like I was trapped in a dream - I think I knew it was the fade, in retrospect, but at the time it just felt like a.. nightmare. I was just.. I was stuck, looking down at her, you know?” Hawke’s expression turns distant, humour quickly leaking out of him.   
  
“She was there where she’d lain as the ogre had grabbed her, held her aloft like one of the dolls mother might have made her as a child. She’d gone all limp. And I was stuck watching. It wasn’t even a memory, because I know what happened. I’d run forward but it had been too late - the ogre had crushed her, snuffed her out and tossed her aside like she was some... thing, not a person,” Hawke’s voice seems to shake with the effort of recounting it, and he shudders just once.   
  
“It was the worst thing I had ever experienced, but worse. If that’s possible?” He has to offer a little laugh at that, but his grip was white fingered on the handle of his staff as they continued to climb.   
  
“Hawke I’m..,” Anders begins, but the other mage simply holds up a hand.   
  
“It’s fine. I’ve made peace with it. You certain the others don’t need your concern? I’ve faced the fade before, every night when I dream. Those two,” Hawke throws a haphazard thumb over his shoulder.   
  
“They aren’t even mages. I doubt they even know what happened to them.”  
  
Ander glances back over to where the two of them are still lagging behind - they also seem deeply involved in conversation, though it's hard to tell. Fenris’ head is ducked, but Isabela is throwing comments over her shoulder like there was no tomorrow. Even if Anders was certain he had already identified the demon that had plagued Fenris (thanks to his none too intentional traipse through his dreams) it would be interesting to ask Isabela as well, and to check up on them both.   
  
“When we make camp,” He promises Hawke, and the other mage nods his expression turning just the slightest bit relieved as he looked over the pair of them. Hawke was a good leader, Anders thinks, clutching the thought close to his chest. He hoped he looked at him with that same doting fondness when his back was turned.   
  
Anders is broken from his reverie of the afternoon by being handed a steaming bowl of stew. Isabela had taught Hawke how to catch fish in the shallow waters down by the entrance to the cave, so the pair of them had come back with a few good handfuls of the little things.   
  
Fenris looked particularly sour about the choice of dinner.   
  
“No, thank you,” He says stiffly as Hawke offers him a bowl. Instead he stands, still looking a little pale from earlier even in the fire light. He’s holding a flask in his now un-gauntleted fingers. Anders could smell the wine from where he sat.   
  
“I’ll take first watch,” He says in his low rumbling tone and marches away from the camp moving off beyond the firelight and toward the edge of the cliff.   
  
Hawke sends Anders a pointed look.   
  
He sighs, scoops down a few mouthfuls of the stew - seasoned with spices Hawke always carried in a little pouch, and a few Isabela had found as well, delicious and salty and fresh. Fish had always been a treat for him; it was hard to get it inland in the Circle, so they simply never had it. In the deep roads fish spoiled too fast, unless it was pickled and even then it was cheaper to simply have salted meats easier to procure. For Anders, fish tasted like freedom. It was an odd association he was certain, but he finishes the last of his meal, puts down the bowl, and hurries off in the direction of the elf striding away.   
  
“Don’t push him off!” Isabela calls after him sing songingly with a laugh, but Anders takes little mind of the comment as he catches up to him.   
  
Fenris doesn’t turn as Anders had expected - his usual snappy self - but twitches an ear as he hears the footsteps coming, and throws a look over his shoulder.   
  
“Mage,” He gravels in a tone that could almost be a question, were it not a statement and an insult rolled into one.   
  
“Very observant,” Anders quips back despite himself, before taking a moment to fall into step beside the warrior. The silence between them is stony as the cliff face. Anders takes a moment to shift a rock with the toe of his boot before giving it a little nudge over the edge, watching as it slips over the edge of the cliff and bounces into the oblivion of churning ocean and jutting rocks below. A charming thought, all in all.  
  
“I wanted to check that you were alright. After the demo-” He starts stiffly, but Fenris cuts in with a quick, “I am fine,” before he can even finish the sentence. His tone is curt and his expression tight lipped, but he doesn’t even give his usual heated glare afterwards. He keeps his gaze averted, staring listlessly into the horizon line.  
  
“Well, _clearly_ you’re not,” Anders retorts, crossing his arms. Sure, he and Fenris had never seen eye to eye, but he knew magic and Fenris shunned it; he was probably clueless about the true nature of demons, and the experiences it had dredged up.  
  
“Do not test me, _mage_ ,” Fenris spits back, turning away as if to march off again. The spite he seemed to pour into that one word - the same kind of hate and disgust Anders had heard time and time again, it boils his blood and hits a nerve.   
  
“I saw it, you know!” He growls at Fenris’ retreating back and that seems to freeze him right in place.   
  
He stops, shoulders hunched, throwing a dangerous sort of look over his shoulder, face mostly obscured by his uneven white fringe.   
  
“What?” He says, voice even. Quiet.   
  
Anders holds firm, eyes narrowing.   
  
“You like to pretend you’re so exempt - so above mages as if we’re the only ones corruptible by demons influence-”  
  
Fenris turns then, expression livid and mouth drawn in a scowl.

  
“As if those blood mages we fought were not some of those you have helped escape the Circle; yes I know of your underground, how you help smuggle those too scared of being guarded for everyones safety that they turn to _anything_ to escape-”

  
Anders can’t help but snort.   
  
“And what would you do, if your freedom was compromised? The mages I’ve helped escape have been apprentices, terrified of being turned tranquil for the single offense of being born-”  
  
“-With the ability to set someone on fire. With. Their. _Mind_ ,” Fenris finishes for him quickly. But he doesn’t stop there; the anger visible in his every sharp learn, every jerked action.  
  
“If mages are given a chance at freedom they will lord their magic over everyone, and who could stand against them? Who could tell a mage no when threatened with the kinds of power they hold? And if mages had such powers, who would tell them when enough was enough?”  
  
“You act as if Tevinter is the only other solution when it would take _years_ to even achieve such a thing-”  
  
“Then you admit it. You wish to live like a magister and have demons at your beck and call?”  
  
Anders feels as though he is ramming his head resolutely against the wall of the Gallows. It is about as pleasant an experience.   
  
“Mages are not the only ones susceptible to demons, as we both know,” He growls. Fenris glares him down sourly but he pauses a moment, and Anders seizes upon it.   
  
They’d been gradually growing in volume over the course of the argument, voices loud enough that it rouses the others from the campfire. Isabela and Hawke are hurrying over but they’re still a few metres away before Anders snarls;  
  
“Of all the demons you fell to, a _desire_ demon? I saw you Fenris - I saw everything you ever wished would happen!”  
  
At the mention of the demon dream, the elf freezes. His expression grows slack and his eyes widen, skin waxy under the pale light of the moon. He snaps his mouth shut and storms off without another word, and before Anders can even bask in the glow of the momentary victory, Isabela slams into his shoulder and spins him round.   
  
He’s never seen her look as angry as she did then, eyes pools of burning molten fire, brows drawn down and scowl turning her usual pout all teeth.   
  
“You bloody blighted idiot!” She snaps, fingers clawed as she grips his sleeves and shakes him. They’re still close to the cliff edge and for a moment he thinks she wants to throw him off, but she just shakes him again. He puffs up just a little frowning as he begins, “I was simply defending the position of mag-”  
  
“Oh no you don’t!” She snaps as she finally relinquishes her grip, fingers balled in tight little fists. Hawke looks concerned, teetering behind her as though he can’t decide whether to stay or to turn after Fenris. After a moment's longer consideration he’s setting off into the dark in some blithe hope to find the elf, and Anders can’t help but feel the crushing sensation in his chest as Hawke’s back disappears in the darkness. It wasn’t fair.   
  
“I can’t _believe_ how pig headed you are sometimes!” Isabela starts, pacing now back and forth before him.   
  
“You think that was a desire demon? I know about as much about magic as I do about the chant of light, but I can tell you one thing with a solid certainty,” She turns to him again, locking eyes with him.   
  
“What _I_  saw in the fade was the most-,” She has to shudder for a minute, but she composes herself, anger sustaining her.  
  
“The _worst_ thing I could see, ever. I asked Hawke, and his was the same. That wasn’t Fenris’ deepest desire you great feather wearing idiot,” She shakes her head, glaring daggers. Anders feels the dread like a knot in his throat.   
  
“That was his greatest _fear_.”

\---

When Hawke returns to the camp about an hour later, he looks haggard and defeated.   
  
“Fenris has decided to go on to Kirkwall. Alone,” He announces stiffly, and Anders hunches a little as though the words struck him about the head.   
  
Isabela sighs loudly.   
  
“Look tiger, I’m sorry alright? But I’d already talked with Fenris about it while you were snuggling up to Hawke. He hadn’t.. looked right, after what happened,” She shakes her head but fixes Anders with a hard look. He could tell she was gearing up to use her ‘captain voice’, which was similar in most ways to her usual voice, though lacked the buoyancy and flirtatiousness Isabela’s tone normally carried. This was one of those time.   
  
“When we get back though-”  
  
“I need to fix things,” Anders finishes without looking up, shaking his head.   
  
Isabela nods her satisfaction.  
  
Hawke simply sighs, and looks up to the sky - still smattered with stars and a dark inky blue. It was so clear that night, and the moon was full and bright.   
  
“This is why I can’t take you two _anywhere_ ,” he groans to the heavens. Isabela laughs at that, and still has the humour to kick her feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering what Isabela's greatest fear was (I hate to brush over her as she is DEFINITELY one of my favourites, but for the sake of brevity and the fact of the matter being that the fic was already at 6k words and unfinished, I will simply link it) take a peek from (spoilers!) The Silent Grove comics http://40.media.tumblr.com/767498056287858f61760eb3f9f341c9/tumblr_mlont8lqjR1qlqi9uo2_1280.jpg  
> http://images.tfaw.com/common/salestools/previews/dauws2/dauws2p6.jpg


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a little time! putting up 2 chapters at once - i wanted to be particularly careful with the next scene, and write it right.. anyway, i hope this and the next chapter read well and make sense! after these two, only one more chapter to go i should think!

The trip back to Kirkwall is quiet, no matter how Isabela tries to needle them both into conversation. She gives up after a while with a sigh, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms as the three of them tread the long road back.  
  
By the time they arrive at the gates they are dusty and road weary after the tense night sleeping on lumpy bedrolls. Anders rolls the crick in his neck but to no avail, and looks between the two of them. Isabela manages to harangue Hawke into going to the Hanged Man for well earned drinks and the assurance of potential body shots, but Anders bids them both a quick goodbye before heading the long way to his clinic. He’d been mulling over how best to approach the… issue with Fenris. He had, in hindsight, definitely been a jerk. He groans, going through the argument in his mind again, grasping at his hair in frustration and a little in embarrassment. He couldn’t believe what an ass he’d made of himself. What he’d said.  
  
How it must have affected Fenris.  
  
He’s back in his clinic before he knows it, feet seeming to lead him on their own. He slumps in his chair, morose. Staring plaintively at the manifesto notes scrawled in various piles across his messy desk feels a listless and tiring distraction. With a resolution born of guilt he goes to the wash basin in his clinic, rinses his face and picks out a new set of tattered robes that weren't quite as worn through as the rest. Then he goes out the front of the clinic, dims the lantern and walks to the Amell mansion’s secret cellar entrance. Just by the clinic’s door as luck would have it and Hawke had always encouraged him to take it in emergency or otherwise. It looks tumbled down, like everything in Darktown. The rotten wood pillars that are slotted into the grime stained stone walls are nearly crumbling down on themselves like the year worn limbs of some ancient beast. He slips through the entryway into the cool dark space beyond, a dark tunnel that seems to lead only up.  
  
It takes a while to climb the rickety wooden ladder of the most certainly hand carved tunnel, devoid of any lantern or lights. He casts a mage light - a little spirit pulsing with a soft glow and it bobs just above his shoulder casting its gentle light. It was nothing compared to the fire Justice had held in the fade, burning bright and true but it was enough to see by. He gets to an old oak door at the top of the tunnel and fishes a key from one of his pockets, lodging it in the heavy lock (designed specifically by Varric to be lockpick proof - Isabela had tried when she’d forgotten her own keys before giving up and going through a window in Hightown instead) and hears the ‘ _ke-klunk_ ’ as it opens.   
  
The cellar itself is quiet and stuffy but never damp. From above he can hear the muffled footsteps of the households residents. He eases his way past ancient hulking casks and barrels before taking the wooden steps, newly remade and polished up to proper noble sensibilities. After all, Hawke had a reputation to keep.  
  
He can hear Bodahn in a room nearby, chatting away with his son, and Leandra could be waiting in the rooms above. She had always been kind to him, if a little doting - with Carver gone with the Wardens, and Hawke always out of sight she relished having company in the home. Not that she was holed away inside - she often made trips into Hightown, connecting with old friends but conferred upon returning that they all seemed a touch boring after lives lived in the cloistered walls of Hightown. During the Satinalia celebration that year, Hawke had invited of all of his friends to his newly acquired dining hall for a feast so large he could have fed three times their number. Leandra had told rousing tales of her flight with Malcolm across the sea; the adventures they had together in Ferelden evading the Templars and eventually settling in Lothering.   
  
Anders thought on it fondly as he crept out the front door and closes it quietly behind him, setting off through the Hightown square at a brisk pace. Its as he sweeps past the watchful eye of the City Guard that he starts feeling unusually naked for having left his staff back in his clinic but it cannot be helped.   
  
He’d thought it best - if he came to Fenris unarmed, there might be less of a chance of getting impaled through the chest. Not that he didn’t deserve a good impaling; something he had mentioned while they travelled and Isabela had twisted all kinds of lewd ways.   
  
It was a relatively low possibility - Fenris was a great deal many things but he wasn’t without reason. About most things.  
  
The thought sticks for a moment but it’s too late - his feet had lead him to Fenris’ front door, which hung just slightly off its hinges. Curious. Usually the elf at least had the sense to shut it.

It is then that the dread sets in.  
  
He raises a tentative hand before he raps at the door, and waits.  
  
Nothing happens.  
  
After another 3 unsuccessful and terribly polite knocks that make for poor time wasting, he decides there is nothing for it. He fixes his shoulder against the door and gives it a shove.  
  
The force of it sends him stumbling through the doorway as the usually stuck door gives way, and he ends up face to face with the remains of one of the odd leering statues that had sat by the door since they had entered at the elf’s request those few years ago. It was turned over now but its mouth was still twisted in an eerie grin, lips rolled back and eyes squinted just slightly.  
  
Anders rights himself quickly, and looks about the entrance.  
  
The mansion is dark. And quiet.   
  
“Fenris?” He calls uncertain for a moment - he knew Fenris didn’t exactly enjoy entertaining, or rush to the door in any sort of timely manner, but he was sure that by now the elf would have heard him. As it was, his voice just echoes in the empty space bouncing back through the rooms beyond almost mockingly. It’s just a little bit haunting.  
  
He steps forward trying to deduce whether or not the house had been well and truly abandoned, or if there had been some kind of scuffle. Could Danarius have come for Fenris? Sent more mercenaries and head hunters? It wouldn’t be the first time, and Fenris had adamantly assured them it couldn’t be the last until the Magister was dead, but the dust streaked floors with its missing tiles and crumbled chunks of debris seemed relatively familiar to the last distant scuffle, when they had cleared the house of its previous occupants.   
  


He drops the thought as he spies the lone set of tracks smeared into the dirt covered floor, leading away into the main reception. From where the once ornate and elegant ceiling had been falls beams of sunlight that seem to stab their way into the carefully derelict gloom, illuminating the room beyond with its dual winding stair cases.   
  
Then, in the bowels of the mansion Anders heard a noise - not quite unlike the shattering of glass.   
  
He steps through into the huge room, and notes in the corner the tattered clothes and jagged bones of a ribcage still there. He distinctly remembered Hawke complaining of the smell a few months prior when he had come to collect Fenris for a patrol with Aveline. Anders supposed the smell wasn’t an issue any longer.   
  


There's another smash that echoes through the house, and Anders can pinpoint it now - a room thats leads off to the side, the corridors which weave their way round and down to the cellars.   
  
He steps tentatively toward the source of the noise, not quite tip toeing (he tells himself pointedly) but threading his way past shattered tiles and broken pieces of furniture littered down the hall like long crunched bones at the lair of a beast. Chair legs and picture frames, candle sticks and books all got the same treatment - smashed and torn into so many pieces to be left amidst the carnage. Something about the distinct trail of destruction made Anders think it was fresh.  
  
He hears another crash just as he gets to the cellar’s door, and steels his nerves.   
  
Then he pushes it open.  
  
Light from the hallway spills into the room, grey and dusky as it is. It filters down the steps and stops just shy of truly piercing the darkness, but it is enough.   
  
Below, Fenris stands in a pool of dark red and smashed pieces of sea green glass. He’s turned, elven eyes glinting in the darkness unearthly and inhuman. But his face is curiously passive, blank of any emotion. He has a bottle in hand and his eyes drop away from Anders disjointedly as he raises it to his lips and takes a swig. Even in the gloom, Anders can see the stain of the deep burgundy on Fenris’ lips.  
  
“Leave,” Comes a growled command, half slurred and lacking any true bite.   
  
Anders stands in the doorway for a second, stunned to silence.   
  
“I _said_ ,” Snarls Fenris, turning now - his steps are erratic but somehow he misses the glass pieces and doesn’t even slip on the slick of the wine against the stone floor as he swings round and hurls the bottle at the mage.  
  
“ _Leave!_ ”   
  
It slams into the wall 3 ft to his right with the crashing sound from earlier but louder and sharper, and Anders flinches away from the spray. Fenris makes a little choked noise in his throat. But he doesn’t stumble, doesn’t flinch - just glares head bowed from beneath grey white hair that falls lank and shadows his face.   
  
Anders takes a step down the stairs.   
  
“I just came here to-”  
  
“Lord your victory over me, mage?” Fenris spits.   
  
“Apologise,” Anders finishes, but it sounds weak even to him.   
  
“I just. I am sorry Fenris. I’m so sorry,”   
  
Fenris’ expression shifts - from a drawn mask to something on the verge of laughter. He draws his teeth but the expression is anything but pleasant.  
  
“You think I need _your_ pity, mage? Do you think it is pity I so desire?”  
  
He does laugh then, wild and broken and harsh, like glass jangled in his chest, like stones grating together rough and sharp. Like the snap of his teeth as he closes his mouth and fixes Anders with eyes so intense they look black.  
  
“I _have_ never needed pity. Especially from you. You who lauds freedom but spouts the virtues of Tevinter when you know nothing of it. You who have not lived there, suffered under it. Do you know what it takes to make a mage, Anders? To make a Magister? I do,” He doesn’t pause as he spits, “ And you’ve seen it now,” but looks stricken at that, but only for a moment. Then he takes a shaking unsteady step forward.

 **  
** He looks as though he took to drinking at soon as he returned, and hasn’t stopped until now. Anders can’t help but take the last few steps quickly, healer’s instinct at the forefront of his mind, but Fenris bats him back with sloppy swings. As he realizes the mage is in range, he grabs him by the collar and draws him closer. His breath is sour with wine and he’s nearly leaning on the Anders front as he growls, “What did you _see_?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is where the warning for the fic comes in!!! this is from fenris' perspective!! non-con happens in this chap!! further exploration of the fenris/danarius dynamic, effectively

Fenris’ back aches. His knees ache as well, and his palms are cramping with cold as they are pressed against the cool of the marble floor, nose facing the ground. He has been waiting what seems hours.  
  
After he had returned home in the evening with his master, Danarius had brushed him away to the bathing quarters asking he be washed and perfumed, before retiring to his private wing of the manse for research. Fenris was then escorted (though he did not require it as he knew the way perfectly) by hand servants to the bathrooms, and hot water was drawn. His armaments were quickly stripped away to be cleaned and polished, and he was left to remove his tunic and breeches himself, before climbing into the tub. The streets of Minrathous most close to the Arcanist's Hall and the rest of high society were well guarded and clean of most beggars or common folk. But there was dirt and grit and sweat simply from staying at Danarius’ side during the whole of his tour through the streets and hall. He had been very well behaved the entire time, as he always was, and had taken extra care when serving his master’s meal - he had not spilt a drop of wine. It had been his master’s favourite dish today, which had earnt him a smile though he had no hand in the food preparation. Still it had warmed him, and he had bobbed his head once and stood to the side to wait and watch, ever vigilant.   
  
He is brought from the thoughts by the harsh scrub of a brush against his shoulder, as one of the hand servant’s takes to scrubbing him down. Another pours a sweetened oil into the bath, sprinkled with crushed and dried flower petals and the steam rises with the scent of it clear and sweet. He doesn’t tense even as his skin turns red under the scrubbing of one of the hand servant’s - her expressions is carefully neutral, but her brows are drawn down just the slightest bit. He’d taking to reading facial expressions as most slave’s did - the slightest glare or perceived displeasure if correctly recognized could be used to avoid tempting his master’s temper.  
  
He knew she resented him, for the master’s favor, for his position at Danarius’ side. For having to bath him like this, a fellow elf who by all rights was unworthy of such treatment and privileges.   
  
Not a one of them speaks a word to him and the whole process is undergone in silence; he’s never known whether it is from spite or by order.   
  
Regardless, he is scrubbed and brushed, hair washed and towelled before he is shooed from the tub. A new set of pants has been laid out for him and nothing else, so he pulls them on, lacing up the front. There is no servant bearing food and his stomach churns just the slightest bit - he hadn’t eaten since he had been allowed the scraps of his master’s plate at lunch. It meant either his master had forgotten (though he never had, and never did) or he would be fed once in private attendance. When Danarius requested him in his bedchambers he would often have already have taken his evening meal, but the cooks were overzealous and there would always be some set aside. His master insisted that Fenris sit at the table as a guest might, which was scandal enough in its own right, let alone allowed to pick whichever portions he so desired.   
  
There is a tiny prick of pleasure in the thought - that he is favoured for his prowess and skills. Fenris had become well adapted to his life here; at first he had not known proceeding or protocol and had to be punished. Once he had spilt wine upon one of Danarius’ guests, just a drop on a tunic, but it had been enough for a lashing later and his master’s ire. Still, he had learnt since then; he could tell what mood Danarius was in, and what to do for each swell and ebb of his temper. He knew when to accept his affections, and when best to weather his tirades. There is a tiny bundle of nerves ground up in his chest as he hopes his master will still be pleased with him. His moods were unpredictable, but Fenris had done everything within his power to please him. He hoped it would be enough.  
  
He pads through the halls to his master’s bed chambers unescorted, but he feels the eyes upon him; as he walks past the human guards who man the edge of the atrium. They barely glance at him, so common is the sight of the elf with bright white hair and curling blue white tattoos. He senses the eyes of the house staff too - all of them elven and all of them bound on different duties. He holds his head just the slightest bit higher as he walks through the doors to Danarius’ chamber - Danarius would chide him for anything less.

 

And then, he waits.   
  
The eventual sound of the door opening and breaking the silence with the slightest ‘click’ is like music to Fenris ears if only it means he would be allowed to stand soon. It breaks through his thoughts at well - no more time to consider what his master had been doing, what kind of mood he would be in. Light spills into the darkness of the room from the lanterns beyond, and he hadn’t even realized how dark it had grown as he’d waited.

  
He doesn’t move until he hears the footsteps right before him, feels the presence of his master loom right above him, and hears him say, “Rise.”

 

He moves swiftly to his feet all languid grace, and Danarius smiles at him - the kind where his blue eyes soften around the corners, just the slightest bit. Fenris feels the anxious gnawing in his chest leave for a moment (he is pleased with him then, a small blessing) but he dare not breathe a sigh of relief. Danarius snaps his fingers, and behind Fenris the furnace bursts into life, orange yellows flames licking hungrily up the chimney.   
  
Fenris tries not to jump but he flinches the tiniest bit at the suddenness of it - magic is still unnerving to him, no matter how hard he tries to settle the unsteady skip of his heart. Flames snapping into existence was the least of the things he had seen Danarius do, but this close his lyrium markings twinge just a little all the same.   
  
His master ‘ _Tsk_ ’s just once, the displeasured flick of tongue against teeth, and Fenris hangs his head just the slightest bit.   
  
Danarius takes a seat on a chair drawn near to the fireplace; an elegant curving creation with cast gold feet in the shape of dragon’s talons.   
  
“Now now, my little wolf, it’s not fitting of my most prized, my most precious to be so affected by my magic. Is it not magic everything that has made you as you are? It is the gift that I used to best shape you, after all,” He gestures with a hand as he chides, and Fenris’ head dips lower in shame as he steps forward, still as he comes to standing before Danarius.   
  
One of the Magister’s hands finds its way to his hip, warm against the cool of his skin and just the slightest bit clammy. Fenris doesn’t draw away, though he feels the sick flip flop in his stomach.

 

His master’s other hand finds its way to his other hip, and a thumb idly runs back and forth over the jut of it edging across the line of his breeches.   
  
“Though I suppose you cannot be blamed. You are an elf, after all,” He nudges Fenris back just the slightest bit, and points down - Fenris drops to his knees obediently and Danarius continues.   
  
“But I will not have you acting timid as a rabbit at the first flicker of a flame. Hadriana must run through her drills with you once more, I suspect,” One hand cradled his jaw for a moment before slipping through his hair, fingers weaving before Danarius took sharp hold, and gave an impatient little tug that prickled at Fenris’ scalp. He shuffles closer awkward on his knees till his shoulders are pressed up against his master’s knees, cheek pressed to his thigh.

 

 _Anything_ but Hadriana - he nearly sagged just at the mention of her ‘drills’. Danarius would leave him completely in the care of his Apprentice whom had little thought for things such as feeding Fenris, or allowing him to sleep, citing that he should always be aware and vigilant, ready to strike should someone send assassins after his master. She also seemed to simply enjoy tormenting him. He had become a precariously light sleeper because of it, and were his reaction’s not fast enough she never pulled her spells; allowing him to be burnt with brushes of flames or stabbed with shards of ice, electrocuted slightly or thrown backwards by a telepathic force.

 

From all of it, he had learnt some of the abilities of his markings - things not even Danarius had expected. The ability to nullify some effects of magic, and to radiate a small blasting wave himself by pulsing the markings just so had been a few of the discoveries. Danarius had been most pleased when he had Fenris returned to his care, but he always idly mentioned Fenris’ time with Hadriana - and how, at any point, he might leave Fenris to her once more.   
  
Danarius’ other hand traces the shell of his pointed ear, and Fenris tries not to shake; often master’s would flick, pinch or bend back the ears of their elven slaves, knowing them to be particularly sensitive. It was a quietly veiled threat masked with an almost gentle kind of caress and he can’t help but shudder wishing to draw back just the tiniest bit. This close, Danarius smells of heady perfume dark and rich and expensive, and the dust of his private library where he had no doubt been holed up.

 

Fenris nuzzles his cheek against his master’s thigh, lips parting as he sighs just a little; the warmth of his breath sinking through Danarius robes. He knew what his master wanted, after all. This close to his master, his tattoo’s always seemed to react; he feels them like a low burning sort of ache, racing up and down his skin, prickling to gooseflesh at the sensation but his master scarcely seems to notice.   
  
“So _good_ ,” He croons as Fenris nudges closer, bracing one hand against the chair lest he pitch over face first into Danarius lap. The same sick flip flop feeling in his stomach rises, and he wishes he could simply sit back; but what he wanted was of no worth to his master, and when he was displeased the fall out was too much to bear.   
  
“To the bed,” Danarius orders voice tight but still restrained, and Fenris disentangles himself at once - his knees still ached a little from the waiting and then once again being down on them, so the bed would be a relief for that, at least. A small blessing.   
  
He knows what’s coming as he sets himself down on the edge of the bed, fingers shakey as he begins unlacing his breeches. He’s been through it a thousand times before, and will endure it a thousand times still he is certain. Nothing is as certain in life as Danarius’ wants, and Fenris is loathe to leave them unfulfilled. The wrote of the routine doesn’t make it easier, but it’s fine, he tells himself. He loves his master. His master does everything for him, gave him everything, made him as he is. He was kept above and apart from the other slave’s, given privileges no other experienced. He had duties that no other could fill. He had purpose and meaning. Danarius loved him.  
  
He tries to ignore the way his throat tightens as he undone the last of the laces of his pants, but Danarius has grown impatient - his master helps shuck off the last vestiges of Fenris clothing, and then he shuffles back slightly on the bed to make space. It was dark, except for the light of the fireplace. If he closed his eyes, it would be over soon enough.


End file.
